


The Space Between

by untouchable



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Poetry, S4 AU, Sexual Tension, Truce, trapped together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21868288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untouchable/pseuds/untouchable
Summary: Instead of taking Psych 101 with Willow, Buffy decides to take a poetry class instead.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 9
Kudos: 111





	1. Dark and Bright

_She walks in beauty, like the night_

_Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_

_And all that’s best of dark and bright_

* * *

Instead of taking Psych 101 with Willow, Buffy decides to take a poetry class instead. It’s a last minute decision, one that sends her practically sprinting to the registrar’s office to change her schedule after skimming the first couple pages of her psychology textbook. That afternoon, Buffy fesses up to Willow as they’re camped out in one of the dining halls by the fro-yo machine. At the news, Willow pouts, makes those puppy dog eyes, and Buffy hurries to explain before her best friend starts to really mope. If she takes Intro to Poetry at two instead of psych at nine in the morning, then she can sleep until noon on Tuesdays and Thursday. This is what Buffy tells Willow, and it’s the truth. Kind of.

Buffy sighs, stirring strawberry yogurt around her bowl. It’s just—Willow’s so excited about the class, about the infamous Professor Walsh, that Buffy doesn’t have the guts to tell her friend that merely looking at the textbook had given her the major wiggins. Out of boredom, she’d cracked open the first page of chapter one just for something to do instead of finishing unpacking her dorm room, and at the very mention of therapists and psychosis, that old flare of fear had swelled in her chest, memories of her brief but terrifying stint in a mental hospital in LA flashing before her eyes.

She’s never told the Scoobies about that little blimp in her life. That day in the dining hall with Willow, Buffy wants to, especially to explain her reasons for ditching Psych 101, but the words get stuck in her throat. She bites her lip and can’t look Willow in the eye. Maybe someday she’ll be able to talk about it with someone. Or maybe not.

She sighs, tossing her fro-yo cup into the trash can a little harder than necessary and the entire thing falls over. 

_Great. Another thing to heap onto the list of why I, Buffy Anne Summers, am a total freak._

Yeah. So psych and Buffy are non-mixy things, but, childhood trauma aside, Buffy’s kind of glad about the switch-up. Poetry sounds sort of cool. And they’re short, right, so not much reading? Definitely a plus.

After parting ways with Willow and promising to make it up to her later for changing classes, Buffy returns her heavy textbook to the university bookstore in favor of a slim poetry anthology, and at two o’clock on Tuesday, Buffy finds her way to the second floor of the English department. She wanted to get there early and get a good seat, something Willow insisted people do in college due to the lack of assigned seating, but Buffy got a bit lost on the way from her dorm and slides into the last available seat.

The classroom is a small seminar-style room with the chairs arranged in a tight semi-circle facing the blackboard. Up front, a frizzy-haired professor is scribbling something on the board. But Buffy’s much more interested in the cute boy next to her with floppy brown and dimples. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye as she takes her notebook out of her bag. He looks kind of like Angel, she decides. 

His name is Parker. 

The next week, they go to a frat party together. It’s in the basement of an off-campus house (Sigma...something?), and Parker puts his hand on her lower back as they descend the narrow staircase into the darkness. Below, the air is thick with sweat and smoke, dim yellow lights illuminating the haze of dancing bodies. Music thumps from the speakers on the wall, some horrible techno-remix song, pulsing like a heartbeat. The floors are slick and shiny with spilled drinks as Parker leads her carefully through the crowd so that they can get their groove on.

Buffy drinks disgustingly cheap beer and smiles prettily at Parker and does her best impression of Normal College Gal. Alas, just when she thinks things are going so well, she catches a glimpse of pale blond hair and the swish of a familiar leather coat at the very edge of her vision. But both are gone the next instant, and Buffy tells herself she’s imagining things. 

* * *

“Tell me everything! Every single detail,” Willow demands, sitting atop her bed with the lamp still on when Buffy creaks open the door to their dorm room.

Her face reddens when she slouches out of her jacket and tosses it on her desk chair. Is it possible that Willow can tell just from looking at her that she’d been getting down and dirty?

“About what?”

“About your night with Parker! Have you guys, like, entered Date-ville?”

Buffy grins, tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear. “I think so? I mean, we never really talked about it. But he’s been so flirty all week and then tonight—”

“Yeah? What happened? What did you do all night?”

She blushes again as she sits on her bed across from Willow, reaching up to take the braid out of her hair just for something to do with her hands. 

“We went to the party. We drank. We danced. We went for ice cream after, and he told me about his dad and just...stuff, like, _real_ stuff, you know? Like the kind of stuff I never knew about Angel, the stuff he would never talk with me about. And it was nice. More than nice. I like him a lot.”

Willow makes a gesture with her hand to continue. “And? Come on, I know there’s more. My best friend senses are tingling!”

Buffy flops back on her bed, musters up her courage. “Well,” she starts, “we went back to his room, and, uh, were talking and just got caught up in the moment, I guess.”

“Wait, you…Buffy! You had sex!”

“Jeez, Will, why don’t you scream that a little louder?”

“Sorry! But, I mean, wow? Big deal, right?” she rushes to add, “In a good way!”

Buffy sits back up, picking at a string on her comforter. She isn’t trying to be all avoid-y, and she doesn’t know why she’s so nervous to talk about this with Willow. Or, despite how much she does like Parker, why it feels like there’s a stone in her stomach. 

“Don’t judge, okay? I know it’s fast, but I think he and I could really have something. He said he’ll call in the morning and we’ll go get coffee together before class.” 

Willow smiles warmly, scooting to the edge of her bed so she can grab Buffy’s hand for a quick squeeze. “No judgement here. In fact, I’m judge-less. All out of judges. I’m glad you’re having fun and really into a guy after”— _Angel_ , they both think but don’t say— “everything that’s been going on.”

Buffy pulls Willow into a hug, pressing her nose against her shoulder and the fabric of her funky penguin pajamas to breath in her distinct Willow smell, and is reminded that she’s so glad they’re best friends.

After a bit more chatting, Willow climbs back into her own bed and quickly falls asleep. Buffy undresses slowly, savoring the evening. Parker made her feel so special tonight, so important, and she wants to thank him for that when she sees him tomorrow. She’s never been very good with verbally expressing her feelings, though—her word skills begin and end at witty quips. 

Only after she’s snug in her bed does it occur to her. Buffy bolts out of bed and grabs a notebook. After the frat party, she and Parker had been talking about a poem they read for class, a piece from Lord Byron, and Parker seemed really into it. Romantic, he called it. She kissed him right after.

A poem, that’s the answer! Buffy Summers is going to write a love poem.

* * *

Parker doesn’t call the next morning.

Buffy stays up until sunrise scribbling notes, tucking the papers under her pillow to catch a few hours of snooze-time before Willow’s alarm clock starts blaring. Despite the lack of sleep, she wakes up with a smile on her face. Buffy takes her time getting ready, brushing her hair and milling around her closet as she picks an outfit, glancing expectantly over to the phone every minute or so. Willow shoots her a cheerful thumbs-up as she heads off to class, saying something about meeting in the library later, and then Buffy is alone.

Biting her thumbnail, she shuffles through her drafts as she waits for the phone to ring. Even with her lack of knowledge on the subject—they’ve only had a handful of classes so far in the semester—she knows her writing isn’t good. Still, it’s the thought that counts, right? Parker is so sensitive, surely he’ll appreciate her attempt to express herself. And poetry class is something they share, something they have in common, and it’s the place where they met, so he’s bound to like it. Bound to like her. 

Making up her mind, Buffy picks out one of the finished poems and shoves it in her bookbag. 

As time ticks by, she sits primly on the end of her bed, looking at the clock on the wall before frowning at the phone. It stays frustratingly silent. Buffy can’t stop the swell of disappointment in her chest even as she tries to come up with some excuse for why Parker hasn’t called. 

As she walks across campus, every possible scenario races through her mind. Maybe he’s still sleeping? Yes, that must be it. Most upperclassmen don’t have morning classes on Friday, so Parker is undoubtedly still deep in dreamland, unaware that he’s caused her all this anxiety. Buffy smiles, imagining him dozing on his bed, hair all adorably ruffled, mouth slightly open. He’ll surely call her later, and they’ll get coffee and have such a laugh about how silly she was…

Or maybe not, judging by the way he’s cozying up to that girl.

Buffy skids to a halt in the middle of the walking path, watching as Parker ducks into the library after a familiar blonde. She’d only spotted them for a moment before they went inside, but that was definitely Parker and he was definitely holding that girl’s hand. Heart thudding in her ears, Buffy follows them into the library. Class can wait. 

Her hopes of his female companion being his sister are quickly ruined. She stares at the horrible scene unfolding in the corner by the computers. Parker is there in one of the big leather armchairs, his arms wrapped around a girl that Buffy recognizes from... _poetry class_ , she realizes with a sickening jolt. She inches closer, past reception, and hides behind a bookshelf to eavesdrop on her classmates’ conversation. They’re so wrapped up in each other that they don’t even notice her awkwardly peering around the shelf, gripping the canvas strap of her book bag like a lifeline, and feeling the violent urge to toss her cookies when Parker feeds this other girl the same lines he’d been feeding her only the night before, about his dad’s death and living life to the fullest, lines Buffy swooned at. Just like this other girl seems to be.

A tingle does down her spine, but Buffy ignores it, passing it off as nausea. 

She steps out from her hiding place. Her voice is strained, wobbly, when she whispers, “Parker?”

Buffy shuffles back and forth, trying to appear casual but failing miserably as Parker makes with the swift introductions. It’s unnecessary, since they all have class together, but Buffy doesn’t have it in her to point it out. The other girl, Katie, gives her a half-hearted wave as she stands up to go to class.

“What’s going on?” Buffy asks, crossing her arms over her middle as Parker gets up.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you didn’t call. A-and I understand if you were busy, or sick, or something, but—”

Parker laughs a little, like she’s said something funny. “It’s only been a day. Do you need to talk to me about something?”

Buffy hunches over, aware that they’re in the library and the librarian is glaring at her for talking so loud and people are probably staring.

She takes a deep breath. “Parker, did I...do something wrong?”

“No,” he says. “No, of course not. It was fun, right? Didn’t you have fun?”

Her head is spinning, frantically trying to keep up with what he’s saying to her. “Is that all it was?”

He grins, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “What else was it supposed to be?”

“It seemed like...you liked me.”

Parker sighs, touches her shoulder in a mockery of affection. “I do. Look I’m sorry if you misunderstood something, but I thought things were pretty clear.”

Buffy bites her lip. She hates how weak her voice sounds, hates the burn in her eyes as she fights off the urge to cry. “I’m sorry.”

“Look, I really have to go now…”

Watching him walk away makes her panic, drudges up old memories of another brown-haired man walking away into the mist, and Buffy desperately calls out, “Parker, wait!” 

She follows him to the library’s entrance, using one hand to grab his arm to make him stay and the other to dig through her bag for the poem. “I did this all wrong—I wanted to give this to you.”

Parker looks at the crumpled piece of paper she’s just shoved in his hands and frowns. “What is this?”

“Um, well. It’s a poem! A love poem, like the ones we’ve been reading in class. Or, not exactly love, as in ‘I love you’. It’s more of a _like_ poem, as in ‘Parker, I like you’—”

Parker clears his throat, and dread squeezes Buffy’s heart. He’s gazing at something over her shoulder, not even bothering to look her in the eye. “Buffy, that’s sweet of you, it really is. But I’m honestly not even that into poetry, it kind of just fit in my schedule, and look, you should probably just keep this.”

Buffy sucks in a sharp breath. When she doesn’t move to retrieve it, he places the piece of paper into her numb hands. 

“Parker—”

“No, it’s cool. We’ll hook up later.”

And then he leaves, like they always do. 

The tears finally escape and spill down her face, and Buffy bolts. She doesn’t want to follow Parker out of the library for fear of running into him on the steps, so she turns and flees up the stairs to the upper levels. She’s all the way on the fourth floor before she slows down, weaving through the bookcases to a secluded area before she slides down the wall to sit on the carpet. With no one around, she lets herself cry ugly, broken sobs that make her sniffle and hiccup. 

Crumbling the poem up into a paper ball, she tosses it away from her. It lands somewhere out of sight in the shadows behind a bookshelf. Buffy puts her head in her hands. She’s only allowed a single moment of wallowing before something hits her on the arm and she looks up, blinking wearily. The wadded-up paper ball sits by her foot. Someone threw it back to her.

Buffy sits up straighter, the tinglies on the back of her neck finally cutting through the haze of her heartbreak. There are no windows nearby, and the lights are dim, so she has to squint through the half-light until her eyes adjust. After a few seconds, she can make out the shape of someone crouched beneath the nearest bookshelf, mostly hidden in darkness. 

“Spike.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken and twisted from S4 of BtVS.  
> The quote at the beginning of the chapter and the poem of which Parker and Buffy talk about is She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron. You can read it here -https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43844/she-walks-in-beauty


	2. A Tyrant Spell

_The night is darkening round me,_

_The wild winds coldly blow;_

_But a tyrant spell has bound me,_

_And I cannot, cannot go._

* * *

“Spike.”

“Slayer.”

They sit and watch each other as time stretches on, becomes meaningless. Buffy’s never seen Spike so motionless. She’s half-convinced he’s a thing of her imagination. Why else would the most annoying vampire on the planet be here in the UC Sunnydale library? And why else would Spike be sitting with her in companionable silence while wearing the strangest expression on his face, looking at her like he’s never seen her before, like he understands?

It’s getting too freaky, so Buffy scrambles for something to say. “You’ve probably been here a while…”

“Since that pesky ball of fire appeared in the sky, yeah.”

She fidgets with the hem of her skirt, flushing slightly with embarrassment. “So you heard everything that happened downstairs?”

He nods, gesturing vaguely to something behind him. “Balcony over there looks out over the lower levels. Had a front row seat.”

Buffy digs her fingernails into the skin of her palms, glaring down at her feet, unable to meet his eyes for some reason. Stupid vampire hearing. Stupid Spike.

“Why are you even in my school’s library?” she demands, wiping furiously at her eyes as she staggers to his feet. “Can you even read?”

“Was lookin’ for you, wasn’t I? Occupyin’ the library was your M.O back at ol’ Sunnydale High, so I thought—” 

“That you’d find me here and kill me?”

He shrugs. “Well, yeah.”

“Then, why aren't you? Making with the killing, I mean.”

He frowns, clears his throat and pushes himself up so that he's standing. “Right then. If you’re gonna be a bitch, I’ll—”

She punches him in the face before he can finish the sentence, and Spike snarls, blood dribbling down from his nose as he lunges at her. Buffy dives out of the way, rolling away from his attack before leaping to her feet once again. Her heart is pounding, muscles tense, that familiar fire filling her veins. Fighting, slaying...it’s just what she needs to put Parker out of her head for a bit. And there’s no one she’d rather fight than Spike.

That last thought catches her by surprise, but she supposes it’s true nonetheless. It always sends a weird thrill through her body when they dance like this. As Buffy twists out of the way to avoid being pummeled by a flurry of skilled movements, she remembers the first time she fought Spike. 

_“I’ll tell you what. As a personal favor from me to you...I’ll make it quick. Won’t hurt a bit.”_

_“No, Spike. It’s gonna hurt a lot.”_

She lands a brutal jab to his jaw and he grunts, vamping out, and staring her down with cold yellow eyes. Buffy pauses, breathing heavily, waiting for him to say something, make some insult about her hair—or, God, he wouldn’t mention the disaster with Parker, would he?—but it never comes. He pauses, looks down and sighs, kicking at the wad of crumpled paper under his boot before reaching down to pick it up. Spike opens it, and Buffy shudders, swallows around the dryness in her throat. 

“Please, can you not—I’m already embarrassed enough and I don’t need...look, Spike, if you say anything nasty I will stake your pasty ass so fast you won't even—”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

She blinks. “Uh, yes you would. You’re mean to me. It’s kind of your thing.”

“Well, ‘ello? Vamp, here. Evil.”

Right. Evil vampire. Buffy shakes her head to clear it. This Parker thing has really messed with her brain if she thinks that Spike would ever be gentlemanly enough to spare her feelings. But the way he’d looked at her when she’d been crying...

Before he can say anything else, she kicks him in the stomach and sends him crashing toward a bookcase, toppling it over. The shelves slam and splinter against the carpet, random hardback books flying everywhere. She cringes at the loud noise, glancing at the stairs. The last thing she needs is a frumpy librarian to come racing up into the fray to see what all the ruckus is about. Buffy looks over to Spike, narrows her eyes at the fallen black heap. As fun as he is to fight, Spike is a pain in her ass and has been for far too long. This has to end.

She retrieves a stake from her bookbag and leans over him, letting out a yelp when Spike grabs her ankle and drags her to the ground. Buffy grunts, dropping her weapon and hitting the floor with a thud. Okay, _ouch_. Moving with such speed that he seems to blur, Spike flips them over so that he’s on top and pinning her down. And then he’s at her neck, fangs pricking at the vein pulsing there. She seizes up in preparation for the bite, but all Spike does is sigh, mumble something against her skin that sounds a lot like “lacks poetry”, and then he’s laughing at her, or maybe at himself, but either way it royally pisses her off. 

Reaching for a splintered piece of bookshelf, she thrusts it toward his chest. Spike shifts away from her neck, smirks as her homemade stake is embedded in an old leather tome that he’s suddenly holding in front of his heart. 

“You missed, cutie.”

“You. Are. The. Worst,” she spits, glaring up at him, her mouth twisting into a scowl. “Just let me kill you already!”

The side of his mouth curves up into a smirk. Spike presses his body down on her, arms caging her in. She ignores the heat that simmers in her belly as his vamp face fades and his blue eyes, so bright in the shadows, stare down at her. 

“Not today.”

She huffs, struggling against him, but Spike’s got her securely trapped beneath him. Books dig uncomfortably into her back and she feels tears of frustration gather. She wants to scream, but doesn’t want to draw attention from downstairs anymore than they already have. This is officially the worst day _ever_.

“Stupid books, stupid library. I hate you so—”

Her whining is cut off when the ancient book still caught between them starts glowing. The humor fades from Spike’s eyes, and he looks at her in shock. 

“What the bloody fuck is—”

And then they’re falling, spinning, tumbling into darkness. 

* * *

The sun is setting in the sky by the time Willow gets out of her last class. Wind ruffling her short hair across her forehead, she hugs her anthropology textbook to her chest and wanders across the grassy lawn that surrounds the science building. It’s quiet on this part of campus so late in the afternoon, everyone back over at the dorms preparing for the weekend, though there are a few stragglers headed to the library to study.

Willow is among them, already flipping through next week’s chapter when she catches sight of a group of girls under one of the large oak trees. The Wiccan club. Willow watches them curiously, having heard about the group in passing, but shyly averts her gaze when a girl with dark blonde hair smiles over at her. Self-conscious of the way her interest is piqued, the red-head hurries away.

Determined not to glance over at the beautiful girl again, she keeps her eyes focused straight ahead as she makes her way to the library and goes inside. The smell of aged paper and dust meets her nose, making Willow relax. That smell, the smell of books and knowledge all around, never fails to comfort her and ease the tension from her shoulders. She’s already spent quite a bit of time in UC Sunnydale’s library, and nods at the librarian as she passes the reception desk. Buffy would probably crack a joke about repeating old patterns, but Willow can’t help falling into her old ways, even if you are supposed to reinvent yourself in college. She likes the feeling of home she gets when she’s somewhere like this. Here, in a library or a bookstore, she can be useful, can research and stop evil in the only way she knows how—with words instead of fists. It’s why she likes witchcraft.

Willow glances over at the armchairs and empty tables, searching for her best friend. They’d made a plan to study a bit, but maybe Buffy forgot they’re supposed to meet? She knows her friend was in worry-mode about Parker, so maybe she got wrapped up in something relating to him? Or something with slaying? Or maybe she’s getting her study on in one of the more private sections on the upper levels?

Willow shrugs, climbing the stairs. She checks all the study rooms and sitting nooks, finds a whole lot of nothing, and decides to go up to the fourth floor. Hardly anyone ever comes up here, it’s mostly just archives, and it’s Willow’s favorite spot for that exact reason. Last week, she casted a silencing charm around the back corner so she could read through her magic books and practice without a chance of being interrupted. Only...it seems someone has managed to stumble upon her haven because the area is practically destroyed.

She stops, frowns down at the mess. Then, becoming increasingly more uneasy by the second, she goes in search of the magic books she’d borrowed from Giles and hidden up here. There are torn pages, cracked spines…

Poop. Giles is _so_ going to freak out.

And there’s a book missing, she realizes after a few minutes. Frantically, she tucks her hair behind her ears and digs through the books scattered around for the missing leatherbound spellbook. Giles had told her specifically to be very careful with it, which is why she didn’t want to risk keeping it in the dorm room. She’d thought it would be safer here out of the way where Buffy or someone on their hall wouldn’t bump into it. He’d told her to handle it gently, to make sure nothing got on it or touched it carelessly, and he’d made it very clear that if she harmed it in any way the book would protect itself.

Willow’s fingers touch a piece of burnt carpet and her eyes go comically wide with panic. A portal. Someone opened a portal here. She looks around, spies the stake and Buffy’s bookbag slumped against the wall. The red-haired witch gulps.

“Uh-oh.” 

* * *

It’s dark. _Really_ dark—the kind of absolute black that seems heavy and endless. Buffy opens her eyes, blinks again and again, but the dark remains. Her heart skips a beat, and begins pounding rapidly against her ribcage. She can’t see anything, not the strange place she’s found herself in, not her hand in front of her face, not even shadows. Nothing.

When a cold hand clamps around her wrist, she splutters and bites down hard on her lip in order hold in the banshee scream that bubbles in her throat. Real fear, unlike she’s felt in a long time, fills her chest.

“Just me, Slayer.” 

A second later, she recognizes the distinct tinglies on the back of her neck—and, like, isn't that totally wiggy? The fact that Spike has his own signature effect on her? That her body knows him even in the dark?

Buffy pulls her hand back, holding it protectively against her chest, scooting away from him. Her back presses against the smooth surface of a wall. She can’t see Spike, but she can feel him still in front of her, hear him breathing softly even though he doesn’t need the air. 

“Where are we? What have you done?” she demands, tucking her legs under herself to try and get as far from the vampire as possible. 

He scoffs. “Me? Didn’t do anythin’.”

“Well, you must have!”

“Smells like magic in here, and you’re the one who’s all chummy with a witch, love.”

She huffs in outrage. “This is _so_ not my fault!”

“That’s not—”

Buffy interrupts him by stumbling loudly to her feet, hand on the wall behind her to keep her steady in her current state of blindness. She hears the rustle of clothing as Spike stands too and, before the part of her brain that is all with the common sense can stop her, Buffy tackles him to the ground. To her dismay, Spike catches her arm and twists it behind her back, shoving her to the ground. Her cheek presses against the cool, hard surface. Her shoulder strains with the way he presses his weight down on her arm in an awkward angle. 

“You really wanna fight me in the dark, little girl?” 

She grits her teeth, bucks him off, and Spike lets her. The solid feel of his body disappears and she’s left floating alone in the pitch-black room. Buffy shudders, curling into a ball. The feeling of tears flooding her eyes sends shame and anger through her body. She’s the Slayer, she’s stronger than this! But she’s also a girl who’s just had her heart broken—well, not broken by Parker exactly, but it hasn’t completely healed from Angel’s departure, and Parker’s rejection cracked open the wound and now everything, that pain, that old ache and abandonment, is all rushing back. 

Spike sighs, as if he’s read her depressing thoughts, and Buffy scrambles to rid her face of the evidence of her misery. She sits up, sniffling in the quiet. 

“Shouldn’t be cryin’ over that boy, ya know. Seemed like a right git to me,” the vampire says, his voice oddly gentle. “Fuckin’ tosser. Say the word and I’ll eat him for you, pet.” 

“Ew. No eating of the people.”

He chuckles, a pleasant sound. “Sorry, sweetheart, kind of in my job description.”

“And what? You decided to come all the way back to Sunnydale to remind me of that?”

“No.”

“Then why, huh?” Buffy glares into the blackness, hoping she’s looking in the right direction. “Did Dru dump you again?”

His growl is answer enough. Given her own tragic love-life, she does feel a smidge bad about bringing up his crazy girlfriend, but the feeling is knocked from her when Spike punches her in the jaw so fast that it makes her head spin. 

“What are you doing?”

He grunts. His voice is furious when he replies, “Tap dancing—what the fuck does it seem like I’m doin’? I’m fightin’ you, I’m gonna _kill_ you, Slayer. Yeah, that’ll show her, show her I’m not bloody covered in the sunlight, covered in _you_ , that—”

“Spike?”

“—don’t taste like fuckin’ ashes….what?”

“Can you at least turn the lights on? Fair fight, ever heard of it?”

He backs off a bit, and she can feel the burn of his gaze as he looks at her. “You can’t see in the dark, right.”

Buffy shrugs. “Mmm-hm. Slayer fists, human eyes.”

“I _was_ wondering why you were staring at my crotch earlier,” is his smug response, and she can practically hear him smirk. 

“Ugh. You’re so gross.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” he replies. 

_"I’m all you’ve got_ ," he said years ago.

“Truce, like last time? Until we get out?”

“Yeah” Spike says. “Yeah, alright, Slayer.”

It should make her uneasy how effortless it is for them to fall back into the role of allies again, but she ignores it for the time being. Bigger things to focus on. She can deal with weird Spike stuff later. Or not. When they’re out of here, he’s going to meet the pointy end of her stake and that’ll be that. 

Buffy bobs her head, running her hands through her tangled hair. “Okay. First thing’s first...where the heck are we?”

“Already told you that I dunno. But we’re in a small steel room, no light. Dark even for my standards, but I can see a bit. No furniture, no windows, no bloody door.”

She frowns. “No door? Then how did we get in?”

“Dunno. Magic, I guess. That book, it was glowin’ before everything went poof.”

“Ugh, magic sucks. Major suckage. Demons are easy—punch, kick, dead. But with magic? How the heck am I supposed to stake a spell?”

“With you, Slayer. Mojo like this leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

Buffy’s lips twitch into a half-smile. “Whoa, can you believe we have something in common?”

“Besides our bleached hair and good looks, you mean? And the poetry.”

“Hey! I’m a natural blonde!”

“So am I,” Spike remarks snarkily.

Buffy opens her mouth, ready to fire another quip back at him when something makes her pause. What is she doing, joking with the undead? Even if they are trapped together, even if they have a truce, getting friendly with Spike is a recipe for badness with a capital ‘B’. 

And then her mind catches up with the rest of what he’d said, and curiosity makes her ask, “What do you know about poetry?” She could imagine him getting bored over the years, reading a novel or two, but poetry and Spike? Seems very non-mixy. 

They’re so close that she thinks she feels him tense up.

“Nothin’,” Spike says quickly. “How ‘bout you?”

“I’m taking a class,” Buffy replies. “That’s where I met Parker…” 

“What’re you readin’ at the moment?” he prompts her, nudging her shoulder.

“Um, we read one by Lord Byron that I liked.”

“ _She walks in beauty, like the night .._.that one?

“Yup! And next week we have to read something by Voltaire. You heard of him?”

Spike snorts. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him, Slayer. He’s alright. Not worth all the hype though.”

Buffy sighs, tipping her head back and looking up, imagining that the vast space of black she sees is just the night sky. “I’d love to go to France.” 

“Paris is nice if you’re in the right mood, but the pulsers there are awful.”

“Really?”

He shifts, and Buffy feels his sleeve brush against hers. “The French are all poofters and sluts.”

She lets out a huff of laughter, startling them both. “Have you...have you seen the Eiffel tower?”

“Was there at the World's Fair just after they built the blasted thing. Most thought it was hideous at the time, now tourists are wettin’ themselves for a pic in front of it.”

“It must be cool to have seen so much stuff.”

She’s never thought of the freedom being a vampire would give someone. Being able to go anywhere and do anything...sounds pretty good to the girl who’s practically tied to the Hellmouth for the rest of her short life. Of course, there’s a steep price. There always is. 

“It all blurs together after a while.”

“But some things must stick out, right? I mean, the important bits? Don’t they seem brighter than the rest?

Buffy hears Spike swallow, and when he speaks, his voice is low. Rougher. _Closer_. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Some things are brighter.”

He heaves himself to his feet then, breaking this strange intimacy that’s settled over them, and Buffy is both relieved and disappointed for reasons she doesn’t understand.

* * *

Hopeless. Getting out of their small prison seems hopeless. Their combined strength does nothing to the steel walls no matter how hard they hit it, and neither of them have any skill with magic. It makes Buffy want to scream when, after taking a step back, knuckles bruised and bloody from pummeling the wall, she feels the surface and doesn’t find a dent. Not even a scratch. 

With a huff of frustration, Buffy sinks to the ground beside Spike. He’s got his lighter flicked open, allowing her to see somewhat. Though she’ll never tell him, she’s more than grateful to have her vision back.

“How long do you think this spell is gonna keep us here? My tummy is rumbly, I skipped breakfast. I’m gonna need to eat soon.”

“Me too,” Spike says, and Buffy freezes.

She crawls away from him hastily, cursing herself for marginally relaxing around a vamp. 

“Not gonna bite you, yeah? Truce, remember? Need your help gettin’ outta here.”

“Uh-huh. And what if we’re in here for days...what happens when you get hungry? Like, _really_ hungry.”

He titles his head to the side, studying her intently. The flame from his lighter makes shadows dance across his face, makes the lines of his cheeks appear sharper. His eyes seem almost black. “I guess we’re gonna find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote at the beginning of the chapter is the first stanza of The Night is Darkening Round Me by Emily Bronte. You can read it here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43711/the-night-is-darkening-round-me.  
> Lord Byron's poem from last chapter is also mentioned again.


	3. A Waking Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those that celebrate, Merry Christmas!!

_Was it a vision, or a waking dream?_

_Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?_

* * *

The room she wakes up in is not her own. Buffy knows this the moment she opens her eyes—there’s too much light, a slant of milky blue sky visible through the open window where, if she was in her UC Sunnydale dorm room, there should be a leafy tree blocking most of the sunlight. Everything is bright, and her vision, before it adjusts, muddles the room into hazy shapes and smudges of color. Slightly blurry, like one of those Monet paintings her mom used to love. 

The room around her stays out of focus, strange and dreamy. She feels shaky, feverish. Her arm is fractured, the skin of her palms is red and raw, and there’s a line of fresh blood down the side of her face. Buffy lets out a choked sob, an animal sound, barely human, that jostles her wounded arm and makes her cry out, makes her eyes fill with tears. Almost instantly, there are sudden footsteps in the hallway, the knob turning, the door opening. 

A man enters, clad in a dark green sweater and grey slacks, honey-brown curls in disarray like he’s been running his hands through them all night. He stands for a moment in front of the window, pale sunlight streaming onto his back and outlining the shape of him in gold, and the sight momentarily stuns her. Her heart thuds.

“Spi...” The word splinters in her mouth. She swallows thickly. “ _Spike_?”

He comes to sit next to her on the bed, smelling like smoke and something minty, and he puts the back of his left hand to her forehead while he takes her hand in his other one—touching her easily, without hesitation, like it’s no big deal, like he _knows_ her — fingers sliding together, skin on skin, and his hand feels _warm_.

* * *

“Buffy's trapped in another _dimension_?” Willow squeeks. 

“It’s more like...between dimensions, I suppose,” Giles explains. “The book, as I _warned_ you, creates a sort of jail to house those who hurt it, a bubble of space attached to our dimension but outside of it, and that’s the tricky part. If I understand correctly, the bubble can brush up against other dimensions. We need to get Buffy back before that happens.” 

Willow pauses in flipping through a book that's caked in a thick layer of dust. Research mode grinds to a stop as she realizes fully what he’s saying. “Can the bubble...pop her out in another dimension if it brushes too closely?”

“Let’s not find out.”

* * *

Buffy wakes up, for real this time, with a jolt. The darkness is disorientating but at least it’s familiar, a relief after that weird dream. She lets out a ragged breath, a sound that mingles with the faint humming coming from the other side of the room. No, not humming. Is Spike...singing?

“Mornin’, Slayer.”

She rubs her eyes, feeling grouchy. “Is it? Morning, I mean.”

“Can’t tell. Can’t sense the sun’s whereabouts for some reason. Odd.”

He doesn’t sound that worried about it, but Buffy is just _so_ over this. And she really needs to pee. Like, _really_ really.

“Does that mean we’re underground?”

“Don’t reckon so. I’d still be able to tell where the sun is if we were.”

“So where _are_ we, then?”

“Been over this already, haven’t we? I don’t bleedin’ know anythin’ more than you.”

Buffy clenches her jaw. “You’re useless.”

“Me? _You’re_ the one snorin’ over there and sayin’ my name in your sleep while we should be tryin’ to get outta here!”

Her heart thunders in her ears as she tries to get her breathing under control. “I...said your name?”

“Yeah. All pathetic-like, too. Beggin’ for mercy, were you? I thought you weren’t the beggin’ kind, Slayer?” he taunts. 

A flash of orange appears, the flame of his lighter, and his ghostly-pale face melts out from the dimness. He’s standing above her, looking down, even though she’d been pretty sure of him being at the other end of the room only a moment ago. 

“If you’re trying to scare me, Spike, it’s not going to work.”

“Is that right? Why’s your heart beatin’ so fast, then? Flutterin’ like a little bird?” 

She doesn’t know. The dream, the one she just had, wasn’t a Slayer dream. Those are more vivid. There’s a palpable quality to them, a heaviness. But this dream, although it wasn’t vivid in the same way, it felt just as real, only...farther away, somehow? It’s too confusing for her to deal with right now. It must be part of them being trapped here. Right? Because why else would she dream about Spike? About Spike as a human, him holding her hand and caring about her and—

“‘Ello? Slayer? Where'd you go?”

Good question.

“Doesn’t matter. I—” 

She tries to stand up but realizes a second too late that, while she was lost in thought, Spike had gotten down to her level, and her momentum sends her crashing into him. They smack foreheads, him falling backward and her landing on top of him. 

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Spike groans. “Could do without the headache, you graceless chit.”

“Well, I could do without _you_ ,” Buffy replies, rolling off of him. 

“Back at you, Slayer.”

Turning toward him, she kicks him harshly in the stomach. 

She knows she shouldn’t pick a fight, since they made that truce and everything, but Buffy can’t help it. If she doesn’t keep antagonizing him, keep riling him up, then they’ll slip into the easy comradery of earlier, and she knows that’s dangerous. Spike seems so human sometimes, being sympathetic about Parker and talking to her about Paris and poetry, and they shouldn’t get along so well, it shouldn’t be so easy to just be Buffy and Spike without being Slayer and vampire. And he’s just so _annoying_. Why does she keep getting stuck with him? And why does he keep coming back when certain other vampires can’t get away fast enough? When men in general flee for the hills when they see her coming? Ugh. 

Spike lets out a foul string of curses and lunges for her. 

“Bitch,” he snarls, throwing a punch that knocks her down. 

His skin is ice cold. It was warm in her dream. Was it a dream?

Buffy sweeps her legs but he dances out of the way, leather coat swishing through the air. His lighter was knocked out of his hand when they hit foreheads, and it’s pitch-black again, but Buffy centers herself, focuses on the tinglies on the back of her neck, before lurching up and to the left. Spike catches her in a mockery of an embrace, both arms around her and confining her own arms to her sides. The speed with which they collide sends Spike stumbling against the wall, but he holds onto her. His grip is tight and strong, and she wonders if he plans to crush her to death like a boa constrictor.

All of a sudden, it doesn’t seem so bad. Death, that is. She’s old for a Slayer already, the clock is ticking, so why not now? College has changed everything, her friends don’t need her as much anymore and neither does her mom, and after Angel, after Parker, all the heartache...Buffy feels broken in places she can’t reach. Her body loosens, waiting for it, for whatever comes next. For the end.

“ _Darkling I listen; and, for many a time, I have been half in love with easeful Death_.” Spike shifts a little, and it feels more he’s holding her now than keeping her captive. His words, spoken right by her ear, seem to echo.

“Keats,” she breaths. “That’s from one of Keats’ poems.”

“That’s right.” He sounds oddly proud of her. 

Their bodies are pressed together, her heart beating for the both of them, and Buffy feels paralyzed, feels _electrified_ when Spike’s nose bumps against hers, cool breath fanning across her mouth. His hand trembles slightly as he brushes her hair out of her face, and suddenly, just like that, she realizes she’s the one holding all the power.

“Recite me another one,” Buffy tells him, growing bolder. 

“More Keats?”

“No. Yes. Whatever you want.”

“ _Tonight I close my eyes and see,”_ Spike starts. “ _A strange procession passing me”_ —Buffy tips her chin up, hypnotized by his voice in the dark—“ _the years before I saw your face go by me with a wistful grace_ ; _they pass, the sensitive shy years, as one strives to dance, half blind with tears_.”

Her breath hitches, but Spike only speaks faster, more urgent, like he’s afraid she’ll interrupt him if he lets her. 

“ _The years went by and never knew that each one brought me nearer you_ ,” Spike whispers into the corner of her mouth, and it’s like he’s trying to tell her something, something important. “ _Their path was narrow and apart and yet it led me to your heart—oh sensitive shy years, oh lonely years, that strove to sing with voices drowned with tears_.”

The words seem to hang around them, hover in the air. 

“You have a really nice voice,” is the idiot thing that comes out of her mouth.

To her relief, Spike laughs, a bit breathless but not mocking, not making fun of her. Her insides get all twisted up at the sound of it. And Buffy’s clearly lost her mind, because all she can think about is how she kissed Parker after _they_ talked about poetry, except now it’s Spike that’s here and holding her and reciting poetry from memory in this sweet, soft whisper that seems so out of place for the harshness of his punk aesthetic and compared to all the ways in which he’s spoken to her in the past...although, there were brief moments…

She wants to kiss him. Spike, not Parker. Spike, resting his forehead against hers in the dark, his cold fingers skimming the edge of her jaw, slow and desperate. But wanting things has never gotten her anywhere good.

Buffy pulls away abruptly, breathing heavily. She wishes she could see him, see the emotions go across his expressive face, wishes she could figure out what he’s thinking. Did he feel it? That heat between them? Or is it all in her head? What would he have done if she’d kissed him?

She shivers, backs up further, going all the way to the opposite wall. He’s silent for so long that she wonders if he’s even still there. Has Spike been swallowed by the darkness? Is she alone?

“Cold?” he asks, voice gruff.

“A little,” she admits.

She hears faint rustling and then Spike tosses his coat to her. Buffy catches it, feeling the soft old leather with both hands, wondering what it means that Spike has shed his armor for her. 

“Thanks,” she responds weakly. 

Fighter was better, she decides. Fighting was safer. 

Spike makes a grunting noise that she guesses translates to “you’re welcome.” Buffy wraps up in his coat. The sleeves reach past her fingertips and the length of it makes her feel like she’s cocooned in a blanket. 

For a long time, they sit in the quiet.   
  


* * *

“Had a dream about you,” Spike casually says.

It’s an unknowable time later. Buffy knew he’d been sleeping by the length of time he’d gone without breathing, and she’s kind of grateful he’s awake again and using his lungs and making noise, making her feel less alone. 

“A weird one? Like, blurry but it felt really  _ real _ .”

He clears his throat. “Yeah.”

At the appearance of shadows, she turns her head to see him lighting up a cigarette. 

“Hey, no smoking in here! There’s no ventilation!” 

“So?”

“ _ So _ , moron, I’m not getting cancer or something just so you can indulge a dirty habit.”

His smirk looks wicked in the half-light, teeth glinting. “Dirty, am I? You haven’t seen anythin’ yet, Slayer.”

She’s utterly unprepared for the way her lower belly pulses. “I don’t want to see anything of yours,” Buffy states firmly, ignoring her body’s response. 

He’s doing this  _ thing  _ with his tongue and — she looks away quickly, cheeks reddening.

“What’s the harm, eh? We’re stuck here anyway. Might as well pass the time somehow, yeah?”

She sits up, mustering outrage. “That’s disgusting, Spike.”

“Interestin’. You weren’t so disgusted earlier when you were swoonin’ in my arms, gettin’ wet while I whispered pretty words in your ears.”

“I was  _ not _ !”

Spike taps his nose with one finger, looking way too smug. “Can’t lie to me about that, love.”

“You’re an ass, and I  _ hate _ you,” Buffy grumbles, rolling the other way and facing the wall, hoping he’ll get the hint to  _ fuck off _ .

He’s Spike so, of course, he doesn’t.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun, Slayer.”

“Look, whatever you think happened, or almost happened, earlier... _ didn’t _ , okay? I just — this is messing with both of us, the being stuck together, and it’s easy in the dark to pretend the person holding us is someone else, so —”

“It was  _ me _ holding you, pet, not soddin’ Peter—”

“Parker.”

“—or Angel.”

Angel’s name changes the tension in the air. Spike’s angry, she can feel it, can tell even without looking over her shoulder. Suddenly, although he hasn’t moved, Spike feels very far away.

She shouldn’t, but she says anyway, all in a rush, “I wasn’t thinking about either of them. I was...I was listening to the poem, to you. I liked it. I thought...you said you didn’t know much about poetry.”

“I lied.”

Buffy smiles at the wall. “I figured that much out,” she replies. “But why?”

_ Why did you lie? Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance? Why did you give me your coat to keep me warm? Why did you come back to Sunnydale? What does it mean that you’re covered in sunlight? Why do I feel like this when you’re around, unravelled?  _

“Not somethin’ I want gettin’ around, yeah? It’s...not who I am anymore.”

_ Liar _ , she thinks. 

“Then why earlier did you—”

“Because of  _ you _ , Slayer. Fuck.”

Buffy rolls over, sits up one one arm. She meets his gaze.

“What does that mean?”

They’re both afraid of the answer. 

“I think she was right,” Spike murmurs. “Dru was right. About me. About me and you. Us.”

Her heart slams in her chest, over and over.  _ Thump, thump, thump _ , like a drum. 

“We were...together in my dream, you and I. We were good together, Buffy. I was—”

“Taking care of me after a car accident? You were human, right?”

He nods, throat bobbing. “Yeah.” 

“I dreamed the same thing. I think...I think this must be part of the magic, right?”

“No. I mean the dreams, sure, but...” He isn’t looking at her. “I felt...before…”

Her brain rushes to comprehend what he’s saying. Spike can’t possibly mean that he...that he  _ likes _ her. He’s a vampire and she’s the Slayer, and it’s wrong in so many different ways. There’s no room for their worlds to collide. But she can’t deny the way she feels pulled into him, the closeness that’s developed so swiftly and in such strange circumstances. Is she starting to...like Spike? Spike, the Slayer of Slayers, the one vampire she’s never been able to kill? Inconceivable. And yet—

“How long?”

Spike shrugs. 

Fury rises in her. She grabs onto it, thorns and all. “What? Was it when you were attacking me and my friends? Putting my mom in danger? Hurting people I care about? Was it—”

“I didn’t fuckin’ ask for this, okay? It just happened, Buffy, and—”

“Well, make it un-happen, Spike. And stop calling me that!”

He scowls. “It’s your bleedin’ name, isn’t?”

“Just shut up!”

He stands up and she matches his movements. The lighter goes out and sends the small room back into darkness. Buffy can hear Spike pacing back and forth, big boots clomping around in front of her.

He whirls toward her suddenly. “You can’t tell me you don’t feel somethin’. I  _ know _ you do, I saw it. I’m not daft. Even if it’s just a physical thing, we can—”

“What? Make out until you get hungry and snack on my neck? Nice try, Spike.”

He huffs in frustration. “This isn’t a trick.”

She crosses her arms stubbornly. “I don’t believe you.”

“You came up to my level of your uni’s library, lookin’ all put out over your wanker of a new boytoy, and all I wanted to do was make you feel better, comfort you. Protect you.”

“Instead, you _punched_ me.”

“You started it! Not gonna turn down a fight, yeah? But I didn’t...I don’t want to hurt you. Not anymore. Not for a while.”

His voice is strained, raw, like he’s exhausted from just talking about this. From thinking about it. Like it’s been weighing on him for longer than he cares to admit. 

Buffy doesn’t know what to say. But she finds herself moving toward him, steadily at first, and then all at once. She isn’t sure what she’s going to do when she gets there, gets to him, but he’s meeting her halfway and already leaning in, guiding her head, and she’s reaching up to kiss him, mouths slanting together, better than she’d hoped. 

Then, unexpectedly, brightness explodes throughout the room and their steel prison melts away, only to be replaced by the walls of Giles’ living room. Under their feet, the carpet burns from the magic of the portal. Willow, holding a giant tome, is looking frazzled but relieved as she finishes the spell. Meanwhile Oz, Giles, Xander, Anya, and a blonde girl Buffy doesn’t know are all standing around and gaping in mute shock as Buffy and Spike slowly pull apart. 

Suddenly, Spike looks unsure, feeling the heavy stares from all the Scoobies. She knows what he’s thinking. They’re back in the real world now. No more truce. No more promises.

Making her choice, Buffy takes his hand. She doesn’t let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote at the beginning of the chapter is Ode To A Nightingale by John Keats. You can read it here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44479/ode-to-a-nightingale.  
> To Buffy, Spike Recites To The Years by Sarah Teasdale. You can read it here: http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/books/teasdale/rivers01.html.


End file.
